


RUSH

by SimulationTheory



Series: A Question of Time [1]
Category: Tennis RPF
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Dom/sub, Established Relationship, Infidelity, Light BDSM, M/M, Melbourne 2019, One-Shot (Maybe), PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-03
Updated: 2019-03-03
Packaged: 2019-11-08 15:12:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17983481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SimulationTheory/pseuds/SimulationTheory
Summary: Rafa has the power now. He can tell Roger he’s sorry that he lost, and then go back to his suite. Back to uncomplicated. Back to conventional. Back to pretending that he has everything he wants, that he doesn’t need anything else. That he doesn’t needthis.Or? He can stay. And accept. And submit.He walks past the bed until they’re touching distance apart. There’s only one answer he’s ever going to give.





	RUSH

**Author's Note:**

> Total fiction. Absolutely, definitely didn't happen. If you got here by googling yourself or your greatest rival, press the 'back' button now.
> 
> Title and lyrics in italics taken from "Rush" by Depeche Mode

_Walk with me,_  
_Open your sensitive mouth_  
_And talk to me_  
_Hold out your delicate hands_  
_And feel me_  
_Couldn’t make any plans to conceal me_

 **Australian Open 2019 R4**  
**R. Nadal d. T. Berdych 6-0 6-1 7-6**

He’s positively glowing as he stands there, the heavy warmth of a straight sets victory settling into his bones. He fields Jim Courier’s on-court questions with his customary smiles, and tries not to mind that he’s making a big deal out of Mery’s presence courtside. He and Jim go back a long way, he gets the humour and the need for an interesting soundbite.

JIm has a knowing smile on his face as the camera pans to Rafa’s box and settles on the pretty brunette. Free time in Melbourne, no match tomorrow, what could they possibly find to do? Rafa adjusts his cap as the sweat cools on his skin, and gamely plays along.

“Have the right practice tomorrow, have a good rest in the afternoon and try to wake up with my 100% energy for that quarter final”

He knows what Jim wants to hear, the gentle innuendo is not lost on him even if his English still isn’t perfect. He sounds as if he’s reciting one of Charly’s training plans. Nobody minds though, the crowd laughs and cheers, and finally Jim lets him go with a wry apology. Swinging his bag over his shoulder he retreats from the late summer sunshine and into the depths of the Rod Laver Arena, with a relieved smile and a wave.

None of them could possibly know, that what he does or doesn’t do tomorrow will depend on tonight. Because today’s order of play isn’t over yet, not by a long shot.

*****

Titin checks his watch for a third time then sighs in visible relief as he sees Rafa and Mery approach quickly, heads down, from the bank of elevators across from reception. The car to take them all to dinner has been waiting so long that the valet had quietly asked Charly if they still require it. Silently the team turns and files towards the gilded revolving doors of the Crown Towers hotel foyer, closing ranks around Rafa so that their path remains uninterrupted by well heeled guests brandishing camera phones. Wanting “just a quick picture, my wife is such a fan”. There have been enough of those already this week. Not to mention the paparazzi photos of Rafa and Mery at lunch. That tabloid rag taking snaps of an innocent discussion and trying to manufacture some clickbait drama. 

It’s a price the team accepted long ago, but it doesn’t mean they have to let Rafa be an easy target. They protect him whenever they can. None of them ask why he’s so late though. They don’t need to. They’ve all been checking the scores since Tsitsipas served the first ball an hour earlier.

Dinner is a disaster. 

The restaurant has given them a private room and the simple italian food is excellent, but it’s clear that Rafa’s mind is elsewhere. He’s not talking to them, and Mery has tried in vain to coax him into eating his pasta before it starts to congeal. 

Charly sips at his water, watching him. He’s not thinking about himself or his recovery, and that isn’t good with a quarter final looming. He sets down his glass and leans across the table. “Rafa. We need to go over plans for tomorrow’s training”

He gets a quirked eyebrow and a brief flash of those dark eyes before Rafa looks back down at his phone. Federer’s match is nearing the end of the third set and Tsitsipas has just broken for a potential 2-1 lead. The numbers on the screen tick over painstakingly slowly and Rafa’s growing nervousness and impatience is clear to the whole table. 

“No need for discussion” he states flatly as he refreshes the page to see if the score will update any faster. “We do the same as always. You tell me what time we start and I’ll be there”

“Well, first thing you need to do is finish that food, and then get a good night's rest”

Rafa snorts derisively at that, and everyone at the table freezes.

“I will be there tomorrow. How i rest tonight is my concern, not yours”. He knows he’s not being fair to Charly, to any of them, but he doesn’t want to be here right now, doesn’t want to believe the story that’s unfolding on the glowing screen next to his plate. Shaking his head he stabs his fork into the middle of his unfinished pasta and stands up, chair scraping against the floor. “Get me a car please, I’m going back”.

Charly looks for a long moment as though he’s going to argue, then nods grimly and beckons the Maitre’d, his lips set in a thin line. Mery reaches up and lays a hand gently on Rafa’s sleeve. 

“Do you want me to...” the question dies in her throat as Rafa looks down at her. In the expressions that flash across his face she sees it all. That she has no place in this scenario. That this is something Rafa carries alone. It’s part of who he is, it’s part of what he needs. They’d talked about it, just once, and she’s tried to understand. She’s trying now, but he has to see the hurt and anger in her eyes because he pats her hand just as she tries to withdraw it.

“I’ll see you later”. 

She knows better than to ask how much later, and quietly turns back to her plate as Rafa strides towards the door.

*****

 **Australian Open 2019 R4**  
**S. Tsitsipas d R. Federer 6-7 7-6 7-5 7-6**

Rafa turns the television off and tosses the remote to the floor. He stares at the screen as its light gradually fades, then down at his hands as if the answer is somehow there. He knew one of them was going to lose - had to - on the way to the final. But he’d never entertained the thought that it would be this early, and it would be _Roger_. Roger wasn’t the one who had barely played since the previous August. Roger hadn’t had surgery. Roger had beaten that guy _the previous week_. Roger - 

Voices in the corridor rouse him from his thoughts and he checks his watch. He left the restaurant over an hour ago. A small part of him appreciates that he’s been left alone. The team will know the scoreline, and what it means. They’ll be sitting in one of the hotel bars downstairs, making small talk and pretending this is normal. Which it...basically is now. Quite a few awkward nights in hotel bars over the last few years.  
He’s only ever told them as much about him and Roger as he feels they need to know. He couldn’t hide it from them for long, it was too important for that. Too obvious. God, some of the explanations to Titin had been _excruciating_ ...and as for Mery - never mind that now. He needs to hurry.

He flicks on the lights in the marble and gilt bathroom where they’ve stood across from one another these past few mornings. Matching bathrobes and his-and-hers sinks. He keeps to his side so he doesn’t have to look at her things, removing his distinctive sponsors watch before splashing his face with cool water. His fringe gets damp in the process and he sweeps it to the side, patting at it as he studies his reflection in the glass. The white shirt he wore to dinner isn’t too crumpled, it’ll do. No need for a shave. He finds he can still look himself in the eye without flinching. 

Punching in the combination for the safe - 280304 - he has to grope around for a moment amongst passports, papers, and a ring box that he’s tried hard not to think about since Rome. Eventually his fingers catch the edge of the creamy vellum envelope and he draws it out, locking the safe and turning away. 

The concierge had handed it to him discreetly as he’d returned from practice on the second day. One glance at his name, handwritten in blue fountain pen, told him all he’d needed to know. He’d looked at it for a beat too long, fingers tracing the letters, before shoving it into the kit bag that Titin had handed out from the tournament car. Thankfully Mery hadn’t been there that day to see his expression. How the thought of that envelope had buoyed his mood visibly from then on.  
He’d never been a good liar. Especially where Roger was concerned.

 

 _Cry for you_  
_Seen the tears roll down from my eyes for you_  
_Heard my truth distorted to lies for you_  
_Watched my love becoming a prize for you_

 

Nobody else is in the elevator, very few can afford the suites on the top floors. As he punches the button, his reflection closes in on him from the mirrored walls. Sunday. It’s only Sunday. It was meant to be Thursday. After the semi final. Their semi final. He’d wanted it so badly, wanted to lay to rest the ghosts of Shanghai. He’d not been competitive that day but he’d hoped, he’d hoped…

The doors glide open on the 15th floor and for a moment he doesn’t know which way to turn. He looks down at the card in his hand. Glances round furtively. The last thing he needs right now is for someone to see him.

He closes the door softly behind him and slips the key card into the holder on the wall. The television flickers into life, welcoming Mr Roger Federer to the Crown Towers. No pseudonym, Roger could never be bothered with that. Always said that he’d just laugh if he tried to be Mr Smith. Rafa smiles at the recollection and switches it off. As if Roger could ever pretend to be an ordinary guest. The few disguises he’d attempted over the years had been terrible, so now he just paid people to not notice him.

It’s not as plush a room as the suite he just left, but the full length windows give similar views of the river and the city skyline beyond. There’s a leather reclining chair there, and that looks a good a place as any to sit and wait. He takes a chilled coke from the minibar and downs half of it before tilting the chair back and settling comfortably. His match today went smoothly but he needs to conserve energy. So with the luxury of time to think, he reflects on the events of the last few days.  
He’s only seen Roger once. Sure, there’s been the usual texts - including the ones on the second phone that not even Mery knows about - but no actual contact. Except. One single moment two days earlier. That one brief touch that the cameras had caught after the Evans match. Rafa closes his eyes and replays it all, slowing it down in his head so he can savour every detail. How his heart had suddenly beat double time as the figure in teal strode towards the locker room. How he had almost hung back to let him pass, before Roger had caught his eye and held out his hand in greeting. How his whole world had narrowed to the pinpoints of Roger’s gaze on him, and Roger’s touch on him.  
He sighs and swigs his coke. Practice after that had been ragged, he couldn’t focus and Charly had struggled to mask his frustration. 

A helicopter whirrs distantly. Rafa sees it rather than hears it, and can feel himself growing drowsy. He goes to check his watch before realising he left it upstairs, so uses his phone. The match has been over for more than an hour now. Roger will have to shower, do press, probably have dinner with his team, try and disseminate. Maybe he won’t come. It’s possible. They never discussed what they would do if...well, if this happened. He may not come. But Rafa still thinks he will. So he’ll wait. Because Rafa knows what he’ll need, and he’ll give it to him gladly.

 

 _Open your sensitive mouth_  
_Hold out your delicate hands_  
_With such a sensitive mouth_  
_I’m easy to see through_

 

He wakes with a start to hear a rustling noise by the door. Scrambling to his feet, all he sees at first is that distinctive angular silhouette, placing the ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign on the handle outside. Roger hasn’t switched on the light but the glow from the hallway suddenly illuminates his profile, before the door clicks shut and the shadows descend. Rafa feels his mouth go dry.

Roger turns. He’s all greens and dark greys, shirt open at the collar, expensive shoes, Rolex gleaming. Dressed for dinner. Rafa wonders at what point he walked out on the meal, on Mirka. What he told her. They stare at each other across the room. Drinking each other in.  
It takes a moment for Rafa’s mind to start functioning again - Roger lost the match. He’s out of the Australian Open. Whatever he’s just told the press, the team, maybe even his family, he’ll be hurting. And he’s here, and Rafa wants to help him, wants to soothe the ache. He takes a couple of steps forward and makes as if to speak, but Roger raises a hand to still him.

“Rafa”. The vowels deep and elongated. Only now does Rafa see the bag in Rogers hand. It’s his kit bag from court and his stomach lurches. Roger’s not going to stay after all, maybe he’s leaving town already. He’s done that before, and Rafa couldn’t bear it. He _couldn’t_. They can’t part like this.

“Rafa,” Roger repeats. He sucks in his lower lip and Rafa’s eyes are drawn to the motion. “Do you trust me?”

The question pulses through Rafa’s veins, electrifies every nerve ending. This is the overture they’ve developed over time, before the start of their dance. 

Rafa takes another step away from the window towards him, eyes now locked on his. “Yes”

“Are. You. Sure” Every word is separate and slow and even though these lines are carved in his secret heart, Rafa can feel his head start to spin. He gulps in a breath, his heart starting to hammer so loudly he wonders if Roger can hear it. Then he realises that Roger is waiting for his response.

“Si...yes. Sorry, yes, I trust you”

Those whiskey eyes darken a little. Roger tilts his head gently to one side, waiting. Eyebrows raised almost quizzically. 

“Yes I trust you…?” the lilt on the last word shows that it’s a question, and here’s the challenge, thrown down between them. 

Rafa has the power now. He can tell Roger he’s sorry that he lost and then go back to his suite. Back to uncomplicated. Back to conventional. Back to pretending that he has everything he wants, that he doesn’t need anything else. That he doesn’t need _this_.  
Or? He can stay. And accept. And submit. 

He walks past the bed until they’re touching distance apart. There’s only one answer he’s ever going to give.

“Sir”.

Roger nods, almost imperceptibly. The kit bag drops quietly to the floor. 

Rafa still can’t stop staring at him. Even after all this time he marvels about how lucky he is that this beautiful, elegant man wants to spend time with him. Wants him. Despite the ever increasing physical and emotional cost for them both. He thinks that maybe he’ll never stop craving what only Roger can give him, and that frightens him a little sometimes. Like now. Roger meets his gaze again and there’s a hint of a smile. He slowly unbuttons one shirt cuff and then the other.

When the command comes, its so soft that Rafa barely catches it.

“Good. That’s good. So undress.”

Rafa swallows. This is new. Normally Roger would relish removing his clothes for him, those long fingers stroking every bare patch of skin as they unwrap it like a gift. He nods mutely, backs up against the bed and sits, tugging impatiently at the lace of his shoe.

“No...” 

His head whips up. He doesn’t know what he’s done wrong already, he’s sure he understood…?

“I didn’t tell you to sit down. Get up, Rafa”

He almost pitches forward as he stands but Roger doesn’t move. The other shoe and his socks are dragged off and discarded and he reaches for the top button of his shirt. A movement in the corner of his vision and he looks back up at Roger. He’s coolly rolling up his sleeves. The hair on his forearms glistens with a dark sheen of sweat and Rafa wants to lick it.

His hands have started to shake a little and he can’t get the top button undone. The thread catches and he fumbles. _Mierda_ , he should have changed after dinner to something he could have just pulled over his head. Roger always likes the close fitting white t-shirts and - 

Roger grunts. Fucking _grunts_. Like on court but with an undercurrent of want that stills Rafa’s hands. He’s closed the gap between them and his hands swat Rafa’s away before fisting the white cotton in each hand. Two buttons fly off as he wrenches the material apart, a third suspended by a single thread. He tugs at the shirt a second time and exposes one shoulder. The collar pulls against Rafa’s neck and he does his best to stifle the small whimper that escapes.

Then just as quickly, the touch is gone, the back of one hand brushing feather-light against Rafa’s collarbone. “You’re slow tonight.”

Rafa tugs the torn shirt from his trousers and off, hands still shaking, the remaining button giving way easily. Reaching for the belt of his jeans he looks to Roger for approval. 

Roger is smoothing down the front of his own shirt. He’s sweating a little through the silky dark green material, the dark curls that peak out from the collar so tantalising to Rafa.

“Sir, you want me to - “

“I said, undress. That means everything. Take it all off, Rafael” His full name sounds like a reprimand. Roger makes a sweeping gesture with his palms.

“Show yourself to me. Unless you’re too tired after your victory?”

That stings a little. He knows Roger is proud of him, but knows equally that Roger is hurting, and this is how they’ll deal with that. With a gulping breath he shoves his jeans down over his thighs, belt and all. He’s not wearing any underwear and Roger’s eyes rake over him. Burning everywhere they touch. Rafa feels like maybe he could come just from Roger looking at him like that. Like he’s _starving_ for Rafa. He tries to steady his breathing and bends down to pull the jeans off.

“I saw you laughing today, out on court. Like it’s all just so easy for you, you know?” Roger pauses, inhales deeply. Runs a hand through his hair. ”Like you’re better than me”

The words aren’t fair and they’re so unexpected that they hit Rafa like a punch in the gut. 

He loses his balance and grabs at the wall to steady himself. A hand seizes his arm and suddenly Roger is right there in his face, crowding him. Pinning him to the wall. Hard. Fingers digging into his biceps, pushing him back. He opens his mouth, not sure what he’s even allowed to say but it’s not right, he doesn’t think that and Roger needs to know and - 

“Shut up.” Roger hisses. Hot breath on Rafa’s cheek, grip tightening. His eyes are screwed shut and he’s not here any more, he’s back on court and the result is the same, still the same, he can’t make it right. “I was so close tonight but I couldn’t...and you, you…” He’s bracing himself against Rafa’s arms now, as if he’s afraid what will happen if any other part of them touches. His head bows as he heaves in a tortured breath, and Rafa wants to comfort him, reach for him.  
He strains forward and pain shoots through his arms. 

“Sir”, he almost whispers, “your hands, its too, you push too much” Roger’s head snaps back up.

“Be quiet” he snarls, not loosening his grip. “You won’t break.”

“But my arms, you -“

“Are you arguing with me?”

Rafa squirms. Those neat manicured nails, those long clever fingers, they’re digging in hard, so hard now that it’s burning. He has to pull this back. He wants Roger to stay, to keep touching him, but they have agreed hard limits. Visible bruising during a tournament is one of them now. They learned that the hard way.

When he speaks his voice is choked and the words come out in a rush.

“Please, we talk about this! I have to wear the sleeveless for Nike and I cannot have the problems and the questions again, no? Please Rogi...”

The mention of his name causes Roger to recoil slightly as if startled, and he releases his grip. He’s left clear imprints of his hands on Rafa’s biceps and for a moment he stares at them before nodding slowly and taking a step back, wiping his mouth. Rafa watches him warily, his right hand reflexively moving to rub lighty at the red streaks on his left arm. His breathing is ragged and he’s suddenly acutely aware of his nakedness. 

A bead of sweat trickles down his throat and Roger tracks it, visibly inhaling, chest swelling with each breath as if he’s chasing Rafa’s scent. He runs his tongue slowly over his lower lip, then nods again as if he has reached some sort of internal decision. He pulls a small object from his pocket. It’s made of soft dark leather and as he tips it from one hand to the other, a thoughtful faint smile on his face, the small metal rings glint weakly in the shadows of the room. Rafa’s breath hitches. 

“You remember this, don’t you”. 

It’s a statement rather than a question, and Rafa’s cheeks suddenly feel like they’re on fire, he’s blushing so hard. Oh, he remembers, and he wants, he _craves_. He tries to suppress the slight tremor in his arm as he holds out his hand but he knows Roger sees. Those dark eyes miss nothing as he lightly drops the ring into Rafa’s outstretched palm and inclines his head towards the floor length windows, the skyline glittering mutely in the simmering midnight heat.

“Put it on. Over there. Where I can see”

Rafa walks towards the window. Suddenly all those distant skyscrapers seem so much closer. A helicopter still circles silently. It’s not inconceivable to him that somewhere out there a long lens could be waiting. He gropes along the frame of the window, looking to pull the curtains closed.

“Did I say you could do that?” Roger’s breath ghosts over his right ear, the lightest brush of fingertips at the base of his spine and he freezes, letting go of the cord. He wants so badly to please Roger and he keeps getting it wrong.

There’s a work desk across from the window, and Roger strides over and pulls out the chair. He takes his time sitting down, crossing his legs slowly, deliberately, sleek and predatory. He then turns to where Rafa is still standing by the open curtains, and gestures towards the leather recliner that Rafa had fallen asleep on earlier. 

There’s a gravelly undertone to his voice when he next speaks, maybe this air of self control isn’t quite as effortless as it looks. 

“Lie there. I want to watch you.”

The recliner is facing the windows and Rafa turns it towards Roger before he slides on, the leather cool against his sweat-slick skin. He shifts a little and parts his legs slightly. Roger is watching him intently, one hand absently toying with the base of the lamp on the desk. He gives Rafa a small nod of encouragement.  
His hands tremble slightly as he slips the ring over his cock and balls, and he can’t quite suppress a gasp as the d-rings make contact with his heated skin. Already half hard, he lets out a whine as he pulls the strap tighter, and can’t resist palming his cock quickly. Roger is out of his chair before he can snatch his hand away and oh, he won’t be allowed to do that again.

“I knew you wouldn’t be able to control yourself. Had to touch that pretty cock of yours”

Rafa whimpers and clasps his hands over his chest almost in penitence, as Roger looms over him. He bites his lip and waits, the pulsing in his groin already making each breath more audible, each movement sending bolts of pleasure along his nerve endings. He tenses as Roger kneels next to the chair and lightly grasps Rafa’s hands in his own. It's a surprisingly gentle gesture. Roger’s mouth is close to his flushed skin and his cock aches at the sight of it. But Roger shakes his head silently and slowly pushes Rafa’s hands up and back.

“You don’t get to touch yourself any more. Not until I say you can. So these” he pushes further, then releases him as he sees Rafa comprehend what he’s asking of him now, “these need to stay above your head”. 

With that he gets back to his feet and walks away. Rafa watches him retreat to the discarded kit bag, which he bends at the waist to search through. It’s a familiar view from so many of their tennis matches but the context here has Rafa open mouthed with want, stroking his aching cock which is fully hard and straining against the leather ring.

“Hands. Off”. Roger sounds amused. He still has his back to Rafa.

The metal frame behind his head is cold to the touch and Rafa shifts in the chair as he reaches back to grasp it, feeling the stretch in match tired muscles. Sweat snakes down his chest, but Roger isn’t paying attention to that right now. He’s returned carrying a monogrammed AO towel in one hand and a bundle of cloth in the other. He drops the towel next to the recliner then circles behind it. Rafa arches his back, tilting his head in an effort to see where he is, where his hands are, what is coming.

“Mein Engel” Roger croons softly and with a swift movement he trails the cloth lightly over Rafa’s face. It’s one of the headbands Roger had worn in his match earlier and its scent is intoxicating. Rafa makes a grab for it but Roger is faster, catching his wrist and moving it back to the chair frame. He pushes Rafa’s hands together until they overlap and then wraps the cloth over the top almost reverentially. A binding ceremony of sorts. There’s just enough material for a short knot to secure it, before Roger returns to kneel once more beside the chair.

“Mein Engel” he whispers again, with a butterfly kiss to Rafa’s cheek, before moving down to his jaw and licking a slow stripe from the chin to the ear. Rafa tilts his head in offering, pulse in his neck pounding as Roger traces swirling patterns with his tongue.

“The knot isn’t tight. You could easily get loose with those strong arms of yours” He’s tugging at Rafa’s earlobe with his teeth, now, then lapping at the sweat at his hairline, down towards his collarbone. “But you won’t, you’ll stay like this for me”. He rocks back a little. “Fuck, you’re so hot right now” He groans, his voice thick. “Look at you”

Rafa arches and preens, basking in Roger’s naked admiration. He knows how good he looks. He’s not vain by nature but he wants to know how much he turns Roger on. Wants to hear it. Loves the effect he can have on him, even after all this time together.

He shifts his legs apart slightly and Roger groans at the sight.

“Rafa” he breathes. “My god”

“Is all for you, Rogi” Rafa tenses his arms again and Roger’s eyes glaze slightly. “Just you”

“Shhhh” Roger slowly gets to his feet. He stretches a little, and Rafa sees how hard he is underneath the dark silk suit. Reaching into his back pocket he pulls out a mobile phone.

“All for me”. He tilts the handset, and takes a photograph. Instinctively, Rafa draws his legs together. The ring tightens a fraction and he hisses. Lowering the camera phone, Roger leans down. A drop of pre-cum glistens on the tip of Rafa’s cock and he swipes at it deftly with one finger, before raising his hand to his mouth. Rafa lets out a moan and writhes on the chair, skin sliding against the leather.

Roger slowly licks his finger, watching Rafa’s pupils dilate. “All. For me”. He turns slightly and switches on the desk lamp. The room is suffused with golden shadows. “Imagine if other people could see you like this now”

They both look to the side at the same time. Their reflections in the window now merge with the skyline beyond, where even in the early hours countless tiny lights still blaze. Roger smiles wolfishly down at Rafa.

“Big city out there. Maybe someone can see. Maybe…” he looks from Rafa’s earnest, flushed face to the phone in his hand, “You know the press have been hanging round here all week”. 

Rafa shifts again. This is a fantasy of his - other people seeing them - and Roger knows it.

“Would you like that? Other people watching?” Roger doesn’t seem to expect any answer. “I think I’d like that too. People seeing how good you take it when I fuck you”

He frames another picture. “You look so fucking good. Open your legs again for me. Let me see everything” 

He watches, entranced, as Rafa draws his knees up and outwards. His hand is shaking as he repositions the camera. Rafa whimpers quietly, his cock hard and heavy against his stomach. He’s stretched out and exposed and so turned on by the vulnerability of the position. Roger could demand anything right now and he’d obey him. Gladly.

Click. Roger looks at the screen and grunts, his other hand moving to stroke himself through the damp material of his trousers.

“Yes. _Yes_. So hot. I could get off just looking at these pictures. _Jesus_ ”

Rafa whines. _Please_. Roger tosses the phone onto the desk, and unbuttons his shirt calmly, eyes locked on Rafa’s. The green silk is soaked through as he parts the material, sweat matting the curls on his chest. Rafa bites his lip and holds his gaze as Roger kneels once more at his side. Roger’s eyes are dark as coals as they bore into his. He presses a finger to his lips to bid him be quiet, then bends his head.

His breath is warm on Rafa’s neck as he inhales deeply. For a moment Rafa wishes that he’d showered after all, but Roger has never minded his natural musk. Is turned on by it, in fact. Roger touches him then, kissing and licking into the dip of his collarbone like it’s the only thing that could quench his thirst. His hair brushes against Rafa’s cheek and the mingled aromas of shampoo, cologne and sweat trigger so many memories of times past. Hugs at the net. Locker room embraces. That hair against his neck, his chest, his thighs. He finds himself wishing that Roger would grow it a little more again. He misses grabbing the curls. Pulling and twisting them.

Roger’s mouth moves to the exposed skin on the outside of Rafa’s armpit, then, and Rafa jolts as if scalded.

Roger glances up, eyebrows raised. “Are you ok?”

“Si” Rafa nods fervently. “Is just very sensitive”

Roger smiles slyly, looking immensely pleased, and lowers his head again. He presses light kisses to that same spot, then scrapes his teeth over the pale skin. Rafa sucks in a shuddering breath and writhes on the chair. Every touch is heightened by being stretched out like this and it’s almost too much already. Sweet agony. Roger’s hand splays on the centre of Rafa’s chest, holding him down as Rafa arches. His mouth has moved to Rafa’s nipple now, tongue circling before he sucks hard, again with a hint of teeth.

“Dios mio. _Roger_ ” the words are out before he can stop himself

“I didn’t give you permission to talk”. The hand moves from his chest and is placed firmly over his mouth. Rafa inhales, smells soap and sweat and his eyes flutter shut, even though he wants to watch, wants to see Roger lose himself in him.

Roger licks a stripe up his arm towards the elbow. And then again. He’s murmuring about how strong his arms are, how hot he is, how good he tastes, and Rafa’s head is swimming with it. 

Then the hand lifts from his mouth and the contact is lost. He panics, eyes snapping open as Roger gets to his feet and picks up the towel from the floor. Maybe he did something wrong, god, please don’t let him be going. Not like this, not now. Roger turns his back, pausing as if to collect himself. He must hear Rafa make a noise as he turns his head, and for a moment the hunger on his face softens as he sees Rafa’s stricken expression.

“Oh, liebchen. I’m not leaving”

He drops the towel on Rafa’s other side and kneels again, mouth immediately on Rafa’s right tricep. Calloused fingers trail up and down Rafa’s chest, the occasional hint of nails eliciting more quiet moans and whimpers. It’s a struggle for Rafa to keep from talking but he tries, he really does, because Roger has told him to stay quiet. Roger shuffles back slightly so he’s level with his chest, and Rafa bites down hard on his lip as he teases the nub of his other nipple with his teeth. His right hand reaches back, the same light scraping and stroking but over the tops of Rafa’s thighs. Scratching through the thin line of hair on his abdomen but deliberately not touching his cock. Rafa’s belly trembles at the contact, the muscles jumping. Its too much and not enough..

Another movement and Roger runs his tongue along the groove of his obliques, hand still caressing his thigh. He lifts his head a little and Rafa keens, his cock is so heavy and he needs Roger’s mouth on him badly. Roger’s expression is thoughtful and Rafa arches slightly, trying to show him what he wants. Right now he doesn’t care if he gets reprimanded for it, he’s not sure how much more of this he can bear. He silently implores Roger to help him, to push him over the edge. Be rough, if he needs to. He can take it.

But Roger isn’t rough. Instead he tenderly lays a trail of feather light kisses down the side of his abdomen. The side that had been taped during the match earlier. He hadn’t told Roger, didn’t want to worry him. Didn’t think he’d _seen_.

A single tear slips down Rafa’s cheek then, and Roger looks up at him with such adoration that he thinks his heart might just shatter.

Roger shakes his head as if dazed. Inhaling sharply he sits back on his heels and lightly slaps the top of Rafa’s thigh.

“Legs. Back up” he almost chokes out. Rafa draws his knees back again, soles of his feet resting against the edge of the chair. Roger places his palms on the sides of Rafa’s thighs, parting his legs a little further. His cock, so red and swollen, strains against the leather ring and Roger eyes it hungrily. The slit is wet, Rafa’s been on the edge for so long, and his cock jerks when Roger runs his finger over the silky tip. He smiles and turns his hand so the moisture catches the light.

The first touch against his hole is unexpected and Rafa stifles a cry. Roger’s slender fingers circle lightly, brushing the ring of muscle almost reverentially. He’s talking again and it takes a moment for Rafa to refocus.

“So hot, so tight” Roger is whispering. His fingers continue those maddening circles, probing delicately. “Just for me”. Reaching up, he holds two fingers to Rafa’s lips and Rafa sucks on them greedily.

“That’s it” Roger murmurs. “See how fucking good you taste”. He withdraws his fingers almost reluctantly from Rafa’s mouth and resumes his rubbing. Then slowly - so slowly that Rafa thinks he might go mad if he doesn’t fucking move - slides his middle finger in. There’s a pause, and Rafa tries to grind down on his hand. Roger shakes his head, one finger buried deep. He’s as turned on as Rafa is now, breathing laboured, palm damp against Rafa’s thigh, but Rafa isn’t going to set the pace. That’s not how this works. He pulls out, agonisingly slowly, then twists back in again. And again. Eyes riveted on the movement, watching Rafa’s body yield to him, his other hand keeping him spread.

Rafa’s breath is coming in rasping gulps. His arms are shaking from holding the stretch and the tremor runs through his body. He clenches and gasps, moaning Roger’s name over and over.

“I know what you want. But no. Not until I say. And i’m not done with you yet” and with that Roger leans in and licks behind his balls. Rafa can’t help himself then, he cries out, a stream of Spanish that Roger doesn’t need to understand. He licks again, then sucks at the taut skin of his balls, held so tight against the ring that it’s almost torture. Rafa babbles and cants his hips, chasing the contact.

Roger shushes him and slides a second finger in. The guttural moan that greets this fills the room and with that, Roger pulls out sharply and slaps at his thigh again. Harder this time. 

“Fuck. Turn over” Rafa pulls his hands free and his arms scream in protest. Roger is already on his feet and extends a hand to help him sit upright, As he scrambles onto all fours ,the chair now wet and slippery with his sweat, he feels something being shoved under his knees. The bright blue monogrammed towel has him stifling a sob. How did he get so lucky, that Roger cares so much about him?

Roger stoops to pick up the discarded sweatband from the floor. He strokes the side of Rafa’s face as he straightens.

“You need to stay quiet.” He pushes the cloth gently into Rafa’s mouth and shucks off his shirt. The material is soaked through and it takes a moment before he can discard it, dropping it carelessly. The spread of that broad chest, the wet curls glistening in the lamplight - Rafa wants to reach out and rake his hands across it greedily. But Roger is out of reach again, moving briskly to stand behind him now.

From his new position gripping the sides of the chair Rafa can’t see Roger but he hears him unfasten his belt and his head whips around hawk-like, eyes gleaming fiercely even as he keens through the makeshift gag. The first time he had asked - begged - Roger to use the belt he’d refused. Said he couldn’t take it that far, that he didn’t want to physically hurt the man he loved.

Roger understands now, how it’s a good kind of pain for them both. Something Rafa sometimes needs, to drive everything else out. And Roger, so worshipful of Rafa’s body, gets off on giving him what he needs.

The crack of the belt resounds sharply in the room as it connects. Rafa bites down, his low scream only partly muffled. He squeezes his eyes shut, relishing the fiery heat. Roger only swings once before dropping to his knees to gently run his tongue over the welt that blooms across Rafa’s ass. There’s a tiny break in the skin on the right side and a single drop of blood gathers at its corner. Roger laps at it and Rafa pushes back against his mouth.

“More”. He’s not sure if Roger hears or understands, knows he’s being bratty but god, he wants this.

“No” the reply is sharp and guttural. “Not with the belt, not when you have to play again”

“ _Please_ ” somewhere in the back of his mind a voice that sounds very much like Charly is telling him how stupid and reckless he’s being, but he doesn’t care. Nothing matters except Now and Roger.

“You talk too much” There’s a hand splayed on his back and then Roger slaps him hard on the left ass cheek with the flat of his palm.

“Yeah?” he earns himself a second slap even before the sting of the first has subsided. “Make me stop”. The words are muffled by the cloth in his mouth but he dips his spine as he speaks, hears Rogers groan as he presents himself to him.

A third blow before he feels Roger’s other hand trail between his ass cheeks and oh. Oh. Roger slides two fingers inside again and this time he curls them just right. Rafa leans his forehead on his arms, his whole body shaking. Roger grazes against his prostate a second time and Rafa’s crying now, heaving sobs as he trembles. Everything aches and burns and its almost perfect but he needs more, wants Roger splayed across his back, pounding into him. But tonight isn’t about him. He knew that at match point.

“Mine” Roger growls and twists his fingers as he thrusts. Each movement is accompanied by a further slap, the skin on Rafa’s ass now scorched as if sunburned. Roger’s breathing heavily and there’s no real venom in the blows. Rafa can hear that he’s getting close and wills himself to hang on, to hold it together just a moment or two more. Even so he chokes out a sob as Roger withdraws his fingers.

“God. Yes. _Yes_ ” Roger rasps and the sudden slap to the right ass cheek is delivered with the power of a forehand. Rafa braces on his arms and keens as he hears Roger unzip his trousers. Hears him moan as he pulls his cock out, heavy and slippery, working it feverishly as his hand braces once more against Rafa’s back. Feels the warm spatter as Roger cries out and comes hard over the heated skin of his ass, his release mingling with the sweat that drips off them both.

For a moment there’s no sound in the room except for Roger’s ragged breathing and Rafa’s quiet sobs. Then a movement and footsteps and Roger is by his side, crouching until their faces are level. He pulls the gag from Rafa’s mouth and when their eyes meet Rafa sees that it’s ok now, that he’s done well, that Roger is pleased with him.

“Danke, dass du mir vertraust” Roger strokes the side of his face, cards his fingers through his matted hair. The tear stained smile Rafa rewards him with is so lovely that he’s irretrievably lost at the sight. “Du bist jetzt dran, mein Liebe” he murmurs, and reaches back to unclip the ring.

The last thing Rafa sees before he comes so hard that he blacks out, are Roger’s arms waiting to catch him when he falls.

 _I come up to meet you_  
_Up there, somewhere_  
_When I rush to greet you_  
_My soul is bared_

 

He’s in the shower when he finally comes back to himself, though his legs still feel a little unsteady. Roger’s arm is hooked under both of his, holding him in place as he gently sponges him down. Warm broad chest pressed flush against Rafa’s back and it’s a wonder, he thinks, that Roger managed to get them both in here without injuring something. He doesn’t have the best record when it comes to bathroom-related incidents. Imagine explaining _that_ one to the media.

“Ah. There you are” Roger’s voice rumbles through him and Rafa leans his head back so they are cheek to cheek. Roger presses a gentle kiss to his neck and quietly continues his ritual until they’re both clean and the hot water is making them drowsy.  
Rafa smiles and smiles when Roger insists on drying him as they stand dripping on the cool tiles. 

“You’re going to need something on that bruise” Roger runs the white towel delicately, almost reverentially over the curve of Rafa’s ass. “I’ve got some cream in my bag, i’ll put some on when you’re lying down. Come on”

Rafa is suddenly so, so tired but he can’t sleep. Not yet, not here. They get so little time together that it seems like a waste, even though the few times he’s woken up with Roger curled around him are seared into his memory. Nevertheless he lets himself be ushered back into the bedroom, Roger’s hand splayed on his lower back to guide him. 

The sheets are cool as he settles on his front, chin resting on his hands as Roger rummages in search of the cream. The bed dips as he finds it and climbs to hover over Rafa. The ointment stings but only a little, it’s nothing compared to the constant aches and twinges that have been part of his life for as long as he can remember.

Roger kneels up and puts the tube on the nightstand. Rafa turns, then, and Roger slides down and takes him in his arms. Warm brown eyes rake over his face as Roger cups his cheek gently, before leaning in for a kiss. It’s the first time all night that Roger’s mouth has been on his, and it’s so unbearably tender that Rafa thinks it might hurt more than anything that’s gone before.

Roger plants soft kisses all over his face and neck and Rafa moans quietly. It’s not going anywhere, but it’s reassuring somehow. Validation. Like this thing that they have isn’t just about getting each other off. It runs way deeper than that. He doesn’t really dwell on how deep. They don’t talk about it much.

“Hey” Roger is stroking his face now, smoothing the tanned lines around his eyes with his thumb. “I’ve missed you”

Rafa shifts closer and is about to respond when his stomach rumbles audibly. 

“Sounds like you missed something too. Did you even eat dinner?"

“No…” Rafa recalls Charly’s advice just then and he pushes it away, he’ll deal with that when he has to. “You were playing so no, I did not eat a lot”

”Seriously?” Roger rolls his eyes and makes to get up. “I might still have a couple of snack bars in my bag, it’s not much but - “ Rafa tightens his grip and the older man stills at the look on his face.

“Roger. Is ok. I will have a big breakfast, I promise. Is not important now”

“It is important” Roger sighs, and strokes the hair at the nape of Rafa’s neck. Rafa almost wants to purr in contentment. Doesn’t ever want to move. But these are stolen moments and they both know it. Somehow, somewhere there will be a price to pay.  
He kisses Roger again then, presses every inch of skin to him that he can, trying to imprint himself on him. Brand him somehow. Roger senses his shift in mood and licks into his mouth, hand moving in soothing circles on his back. 

When they break apart both are smiling. For a few moments they lie under the hum of the air conditioning, Rafa tracing senseless patterns in the silky dark hair on Roger’s chest as they rest their foreheads together.

“I have to go soon” Roger almost whispers. “I need to be back upstairs before the kids wake up. They were pretty upset”

Rafa nods for a moment, not trusting himself to speak. No sleep for them here, there isn’t time. For two people who have everything, it sometimes seems terribly unjust that such a simple thing is denied them. 

“You leave for home today?” he can’t meet Roger’s eyes, instead rakes his nails gently down the centre of his chest.

“Yeah. Don’t want to hang around” he realises how this sounds, catches himself. “I mean, you know I’d stay for you but - “

“Roger”. Rafa places his hand over Roger’s heart, the steady vibration anchoring him. “Is fine. I see you in Indian Wells. Miami. Maybe also Paris.” Rafa smiles impishly at him then. Roger hasn’t told the press he’ll return to Roland Garros, even though Rafa has known for a while that he’s considering it. Maybe he’ll tell them soon.

“...and Geneva” Roger grins back at him. “Prague was so amazing, I’m so happy you’ll be there again with me”

“You need someone to play the doubles, so of course I come. Is the only time you win, no?”

Roger laughs then, a delighted chuckle that transforms his whole face. He hugs Rafa hard and kisses him on the forehead. Rafa knows then, that he’s going to be ok, that he’ll get through tomorrow and tomorrow and as many days and weeks as it takes until they can be together again.

He can leave him now.

They dress quickly and quietly. No sense in dragging it out. There’s brief merriment when Rafa tries to reassemble the remnants of his shirt around himself. Roger offers him his last clean players shirt from his kitbag and the thought of that possible paparazzi shot has them both convulsed with giggles.

Rafa is first to leave. He hands the key card back to Roger, and their fingers brush as Rafa turns to go.

“So, Miami?” Roger sounds unsure of himself for the first time that night, as if he is afraid of what the answer might be one day in the future. “Will you, I mean...”  
Rafa rests his forehead lightly against the door, the handle already half pressed down. “Always I will come to you. If you want me. This is not changing”. He pulls back, braces against the light of the corridor. For a moment it feels like he’s about to jump out of an aircraft. No going back. No certainty of how many more times he can submit to this, to him, before one day the parachute doesn’t open. 

“I’m yours”. He heaves in an unsteady breath, and steps out.

“Liebchen…” Roger murmurs, but all he hears in response is the soft click as the door shuts and the darkness envelopes him.  
.

 _Gave more for you_  
_Dropped my crutches and crawled on the floor for you_  
_Went looking behind every door for you_  
_And because of the things that I saw for you_  
_I spiritually grew_  
_When I come up_  
_When I rush_  
_**I rush for you**_


End file.
